by Tracy Sumner
“For God’s sake, don’t wake him up,” her husband muttered from the depths of his pillow. “Unless you want to see a duke cry.”
Camille laughed, very softly, and started to rub Tristan’s back, the gentle circles he liked best. “How can a tiny boy cause such strife? You must be mistaken. Ethan is an angel.”
He hummed lazily beneath his breath, on the verge of dropping back to sleep. “I chased him around this chamber until I grew faint and had to sit down. Embarrassing to be outmanned by a two-year-old.”
Camille stretched out behind Tristan, throwing an arm over his hips and fitting her body to his. His skin was hot, his body hard. A faint quiver moved through her limbs and settled between her thighs. “You’re so good with him, Tris.”
The mattress dipped as he tugged the sheet to Ethan’s chest. “I don’t know how. I love him so much I guess it comes naturally. Like it does with you. With everyone else, I’m rubbish.”
“Natural makes me think of certain activities, activities best performed without clothing.” She nibbled on a sensitive patch below his ear, and he groaned with delight. Her hand trailed beneath the counterpane, down his chest, over his flat belly, and into his waistband. He was hard and pulsing, ready for her. “Do you want to seize this opportunity and sneak off to my bedchamber? I don’t sleep there, so we should use the room for something.”
Tristan lifted his head, glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were turning a spectacular, mossy green, meaning he was about to kiss every thought from her mind. “I think I can summon the strength, since you’re asking so nicely, being an agreeable husband and all.” His lips lifted in the lazy smile that had her insides melting and doing a dreamy slide to the floor. “You know what your blistering look does to me, Princess.” Without disturbing their son, Tristan rolled over and sank his hand into her hair and pulled her into another world, his world, their world. “How long will it take to summon the nursemaid?”
Ethan’s wispy snore ripped them apart. Camille rolled from the bed, held up a hand that shook. After all this time, her husband still made her tremble. “I’ll meet you in my bedchamber. Five minutes.” She crossed the chamber, then turned to find him sitting up in bed, his expression joyful, his gaze scorching. “No, make it four.”
“Princess,” he called as she opened the door.
She looked back.
“I love you. You two”—he nodded to Ethan—“are my life.”
Her heart fluttered, her pulse kicked. “Three minutes,” she amended and gave him a luminous smile. “And I’ll gladly give chase if I have to.”
THE END
Thank you for reading Chasing the Duke! You may have noticed I took minor liberties with the story. I wanted Tristan to have the opportunity to chop down a Christmas tree for Camille, so I moved this tradition’s start date up a few years. It actually began in England in 1848, when Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert, placed one in Windsor Castle. It was originally a German tradition, as I stated in Chasing. Also, the plum tree Camille is so proud of is real—it’s called a Victoria plum and was discovered by a Sussex nurseryman in 1840.
Stick around for an excerpt of the next installment of the 12 Days of Christmas Series: Mayfair Maiden by Annabelle Anders.
Chapter One
Peter Spencer, third son of the Earl of Ravensdale, leaned forward in his chair and slid his left hand downward, his fingers ghosting over the strings as his thumb caressed the smooth wood that made up the neck of the cello.
Without question, he felt more comfortable with the curved instrument resting snugly between his legs than he felt doing almost anything else. He didn’t require an audience. He didn’t require praise. And yet…
Blood thrummed through his veins, knowing that in less than one week, he would be studying under the finest cellist in all of England. HIs gaze skimming the perimeter of the gilded ballroom, he smiled to himself. He would not miss London society over the next six months. He’d never truly fit in with the other gents, playing cards, wagering and pursuing other gentlemanly and not so gentlemanly entertainments. He’d always sensed that he belonged somewhere else.
Only a few lingering guests remained in the massive room, most having moved into the adjacent hall where supper was being served. There would be dancing after, but he’d fulfilled his obligation as guest musician for the night, leaving him free to bow out for the remainder of the evening. If left to him, he would decline these invitations altogether. His mother, however, had a most annoying habit of accepting them on his behalf.
He plucked a soft arpeggio, contemplating the farewell party his brother had threatened. Stone had mentioned scotch, cards, and a brothel—not necessarily in that order.
For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though Peter was getting married. He was simply moving to Brighton. The shine of Golden-red flashed across the room. Not fire, but it might as well be.
The widowed Countess Starling. She stood nearby, partially hidden by a large column, staring out the terrace windows, hugging her arms in front of herself.
This lady was living proof that beauty and wealth didn’t always equal happiness. Earlier, from his vantage point in the dais, he’d observed a cluster of popular ladies blatantly give her the cut direct. She’d handled it well, lifting her chin and moving along, not missing a step.
But he’d seen it. The hurt, the almost imperceptible shudder of pain. And now, rather than follow the crowd into the supper room, she held herself back.
She turned and met his gaze. Forest-green eyes, alabaster skin, and an hourglass figure to rival all figures.
He rose. “My Lady,” he acknowledged her, balancing Rosa on her endpin. Since the first time he’d met the widow last summer at one of his mother’s house parties, she had intrigued him.
Not only because of her beauty. Numerous nubile young beauties paraded themselves in society and hardly any of them ever captured his attention beyond a fleeting appreciation.
No, Lady Starling intrigued him because of her failed potential. She reminded him of a perfectly made violin that no one had ever bothered to tune.
Unfortunately, she also intimidated the hell out of him.
“Do you ever dance?” Her voice echoed in the empty hall.
Peter narrowed his eyes and pushed a wayward lock of hair out of his eyes. She didn’t appear to be hinting that she was seeking him out as an escort.
“On occasion, but I prefer to be on this side of the dancefloor.” He indicated the small box where the orchestra played.
Her posture tugged at him, evoking a myriad of conflicting emotions.
Pity. Desire. And something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Peter ignored the urge to settle his gaze on her full bosoms, or round, inviting hips and dipped his chin to stare down at his instrument. A less volatile curvaceous lady—one who would never betray him, a lady who would give her best so long as he took care of her properly.
“I hate dancing.” Her voice clipped, almost as though she was speaking to herself. “At least you have an excuse to avoid it.”
He glanced back up in time to see her drag a disparaging gaze over his cello. He was oddly offended on behalf of his instrument.
“I thought you were staying with your husband’s family in Brighton this spring.” Although her absence hadn’t kept her out of the latest scandal. The scandal, in fact, that led to Baron Chaswick’s hasty society wedding.
“My in-laws try my patience. They were my husband’s family, never mine. Nothing for me there.” The droll tone of her voice hitched as she glanced toward the windows. “Perhaps nothing for me here, either.”
Peter frowned, not so much at her circumstances, but at his response to the pain revealed when her façade slipped.
No doubt, Lord Starling’s sisters had been less than welcoming. The Earl of Starling had been thirty years his wife’s senior. His family would not have accepted this his widow warmly, as was usually the case when a wealthy and titled gentleman married a
much younger beautiful woman.
From what he’d heard of her sexual prowess, however, he could assume she’d kept the old man happy in his last days. His cohort, Chaswick, had attested to that after having embarked on an affair with her at a house party earlier that year.
“I’ve finished playing for the night,” he surprised himself by saying. “Will you join me at a table in the supper room?” He wasn’t hungry. He’d intended to pack Rosa up and send for his carriage.
She shrugged, forcing a half-smile. A flame-colored curl fell forward, drawing Peter’s attention to her expansive décolletage. “Yes. Perhaps. No.”
Her ambiguous response reminded him why he’d never approached her before. It wasn’t polite to sit when a lady remained standing in his presence, but the usual rules didn’t apply here, did they?
He lowered himself, thinking to experiment with a particular run that had been playing through his mind. He pressed his fingers onto the strings, sliding them down, a motion that felt as familiar to him as walking.
And then she sighed.
A melodic sigh that slid from a high ‘D’ to low ‘D’, spanning a perfect octave. It sent a warmth down his spine and had him staring at her again, noticing the curve of her neck, feminine and fragile. And the delicate slope of her shoulders.
“A stroll through the gardens then?” Likely, she’d refuse him again.
He rubbed a hand beneath his cravat and then rolled his shoulders. Damned hot in here. Halfway through the Season, one couldn’t escape the heat in even the most spectacular of Mayfair ballrooms. Especially after it had accommodated a few hundred sweating, dancing humans for several hours. Add to that the flames from all the candles…
He’d need to pack Rosa up first.
Lady Starling sent him a suspicious sideways glance. “Wouldn’t you prefer to ask one of the debutantes? I’m not fooled by your musical obsession, Mister Spencer. You’re one of Ravensdale’s sons, and sought after as much as any titled gentleman.”
Peter could only laugh at that. He was the third son of an earl—granted, an incredibly wealthy earl, ensuring that he would never lack funds. But his estate, Millcot Lodge in Essex, was a modest one, and he would never hold a title.
Which was perfectly fine with him as he was rather fond of his father and two older brothers—even if Stone had the most annoying habit of bruising his arm with the occasional brotherly sock.
“I’m not interested in escorting a Mayfair maiden. I’m interested in walking you.” Because she had no marriage-minded mama who’d be watching his every move with her daughter. It wouldn’t be significant for him to be spotted alone with a widow.
But more than that. He was interested in her. He had been for some time now.
“Very well.” It wasn’t a resoundingly enthusiastic response, but he doubted the lady was ever resoundingly enthusiastic for much of anything.
“Allow me a moment to put Rosa away.” Carefully setting his cello to the side, he opened the large leather case that had been custom built to protect her for transport.
“You named it?” The question, like everything else she had said to this point, came out in mocking tones. Knowing it was a part of her armor, it didn’t bother him.
“She,” Peter corrected her. “She’s more than a possession. She’s my life. The least she deserves is a name, don’t you think?”
Lady Starling’s throat moved, as though his answer was difficult to swallow. “But it, pardon me, she, is replaceable. She’s an inanimate object—wood, metal, glue.”
Peter snapped the metal closures into place and stroked a hand along the leather. “But for now, she owns my heart.” It was the only way he could explain how he felt about the instrument. He’d owned several others before Rosa and cared equally for each and every one of them. But for today, Rosa was the one that brought his music to life.
He moved around to the opening of the dais, vaguely aware that Lady Starling drifted in the same direction to meet him.
“Shall I send for your wrap?” The evening was warm, but her gown might leave her catching a chill. By no means current on ladies’ fashion, Peter would nonetheless wager a year’s allowance that the plunging bodice of her garment challenged societal boundaries. The brilliant forest-green silk, almost identical to the color of her eyes, cinched in at her waist. The off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves draped lazily into the crooks of her elbows, where long satin gloves ended.
“I’m fine.” Her answer belied her expression. She was far from fine.
Peter winged an arm. “Shall we, then?”
Also by Tracy Sumner
Garrett Brothers Series
Tides of Love
Tides of Passion
Tides of Desire: A Christmas Romance
Southern Heat Series
To Seduce a Rogue
To Desire a Scoundrel: A Christmas Seduction
League of Lords Series
The Lady is Trouble
The Rake is Taken
The Duke is Wicked (coming 2021)
Multi-Author Series
Tempting the Scoundrel
Chasing the Duke: Seventh Day of Christmas
(coming December 7, 2020)
Multi-Author Anthologies
A Scandalous Christmas
(coming November 24, 2020)
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About Tracy Sumner
Tracy's story telling career began when she picked up a copy of LaVyrle Spencer's Vows on a college beach trip. A journalism degree and a thousand romance novels later, she decided to try her hand at writing a southern version of the perfect love story. With a great deal of luck and more than a bit of perseverance, she sold her first novel to Kensington Publishing.
When not writing sensual stories featuring complex characters and lush settings, Tracy can be found reading romance, snowboarding, watching college football and figuring out how she can get to 100 countries before she kicks. She lives in the south, but after spending a few years in NYC, considers herself a New Yorker at heart.
Tracy has been awarded the National Reader's Choice, the Write Touch and the Beacon—with finalist nominations in the HOLT Medallion, Heart of Romance, Rising Stars and Reader's Choice. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish. She loves hearing from readers about why she tends to pit her hero and heroine against each other from the very first page or that great romance she simply must order in five seconds on her Kindle.
Connect with Tracy:
www.tracy-sumner.com
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